A Table By the Window (40 page)

This is going to cost you,
Carley's frugal side jumped in to say.

It's only money. And business is great,
argued the side of her that wanted to put to rest the torment her young friend had lived under for years.
He wouldn't even have to visit Tracy, just give us a phone number so Brooke can hear her voice. How much can that cost?

The frugal side was too ingrained to be totally ignored. She would determine the amount she was willing to spend ahead of time, and then Brooke would just have to let it go once that was reached.

“The reason Mr. Malone hired me to find you, Miss Reed,” Dennis Wingate said over the telephone, “is that he was able to trace your late mother to Sacramento with her social security number. But not having
your
number, and the fact that she lost custody of you when you were fourteen, led him to a dead end. He needed someone to do the footwork. I'm working another case now, but if you'll e-mail me this Tracy Knight's social security number, driver's license number, anything else you have, I can probably find you at least an employment address by the end of the week, just with the Internet and a few phone calls.”

Carley smiled at Brooke, hanging close to the kitchen telephone.

“We'll try.”

“Also,” Mr. Wingate went on, “Any information you can give me about Rick Bryant would be helpful. They may still be together.”

“That's probably going to be impossible,” Carley said.

“Then, we'll wait and see if we need it.” His voice warmed. “So, you moved to Tallulah, did you?”

“I even opened up a little café here with my inheritance.”

“Well, you've made my day, Miss Reed. Most of my searches don't have such happy endings.”

“I'm glad you found me,” Carley told him.

After hanging up, she said to Brooke, “You're going to have to call Tracy's father and get her social security and driver's license numbers. Can you do that?”

The girl frowned, rubbed a mosquito bite on her upper arm. “She didn't have a driver's license. I don't know if he'll give me the other number. He was put out with us for taking her in…and then letting her disappear.”

“But if you explain what it's for, surely he'll cooperate. It can't hurt to try.”

After identifying herself, and making the request, Brooke held the telephone to her ear, nodding, tears making new dark tracks down her face. Eventually she made writing motions, and Carley took the grocery list pad and magnetic pen from the refrigerator.

“He says please let him know what we find out,” Brooke said, hanging up.

Carley still had a café to run. The Moores were coming to clean in the morning. Now that the place was used and maintained, the process took only three to four hours—not counting her office, where she would be immersed in paperwork until after four, when she was expecting a delivery of produce from Fresh Pickin's.

“I'll come and help,” Brooke offered while Carley made a turkey sandwich to take along.

“No. The floors here need dust mopping and the refrigerator should be cleaned out. That would help me most.”

The Moores brought their CD player as usual. It was not as intrusive, coming through office walls, and Carley actually found the music pleasant, though the lyrics were sometimes depressing.

“…Dan and I with throats burned dry and souls…that cry…for water….”

At 1:45, she completed her last bit of paperwork, the income statement for the week of September 16 through 20.
Maybe we should open Mondays too,
she thought, seeing how good the numbers looked on the computer screen. She rocked back in her chair. That would require hiring more people, spacing out schedules. The apple cart was rolling along just fine for the moment.

Give it more time,
she told herself at length. Easier to work with what she
had,
than realize she had made a mistake and have to lay off people. That notion put aside for the present, she checked her e-mail. There was a message from Dennis Wingate.

I've reached a dead end with Tracy Knight
.

Carley clicked on Reply and typed,
I'll try to get Rick Bryant's information
.

Two hours until the produce was due. She took out her telephone book and found Emmit White's number. Mona answered on the fourth ring.

“May I come over for a few minutes?” Carley asked after identifying herself.

“Why?”

“I really can't talk about it over the phone. Please?”

“Oh, all right.”

The GL's windshield was flecked with drops when Carley let herself out the back door, and there were a few puddles in the gravel ruts. The Whites lived on First Street, east of Main, in a two-story home of mellow tan brick and blue shutters. “Over here,” Carley heard when she was just a few feet from the wood-stained front door.

She followed a path of round cement stepping-stones through the damp grass to the side of the house, where a colorful garden about twenty-by-twenty was enclosed by a natural-colored picket fence. Birdhouses were stuck on high posts, and wind chimes tinkled from metal staffs. Small puddles glimmered on three concrete benches. A bay window revealed a kitchen breakfast nook, and steps led up to a side door. Mona Bryant, on her knees at a mound of dirt, said without preliminaries, “What do you want?”

To the back of Mona's denim shirt, Carley said, “Would you mind if we talked face-to-face?”

“Whatever.” Mona rose and turned with exaggerated motions, brushing at the damp knees of her jeans.

“What are you planting?” Carley asked, not that she remotely cared, but in the hopes of getting the intimidating scowl off Mona's face.

“Sweet alyssum.” No change in scowl.

“This is a beautiful garden. Did you plant it yourself?”

There seemed a tiny softening of the stone-faced demeanor. “Mom started it, before she got sick. She potters in it sometimes, but I tend most of it. She likes to sit out here.”

“You must be a very good daughter,” Carley said, sincerely.

A smile flickered and disappeared. “I'm not as good at this as she was. What do you want?”

Carley took a breath. “Brooke Kimball—I guess you know she lives with me now?”

Mona pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, tapped the end against her palm. “What about her?”

“I'm trying to help her find her cousin. And it would help if I had information on your husband.”

The oath Mona spat out was predictable.

“I'm sorry about what happened,” Carley said. “But Brooke was only eleven when Tracy Knight disappeared. She had nothing to do with what happened. She just wants to make sure she's all right, or at least have some closure.”

“Closure,” Mona said thoughtfully, and lit her cigarette. Smoke jetted from her lips. “What's that mean?”

“Well, just knowing what happened, so she can stop thinking about it. We would share the information with you. You might be able to go after your husband for back pay on child support.”

Mona shrugged. “All right.”

“Really?” Carley said.

“If the girl wants closure.”

****

Wednesday after closing, Carley gave in to Brooke's urging and watched a prerecorded
Columbo
episode, sharing the sofa.

“I think you're required to go to bad-grammar school to make your own car commercials,” Carley said during a break in which a Hattiesburg dealer shouted his wares.

Brooke chuckled. “That must be where they learn to say ‘dollahs.'”

In spite of herself, Carley was drawn into the detective show plot, in which a rare-orchid grower murders his nephew after convincing him to pretend to be kidnapped so that they could tap into his trust fund. “This show is pretty cynical about nephews and uncles, isn't it?”

“Sh-h-h.”

The telephone rang. Brooke hit the Pause button.

“Hello?” Carley said.

It was Dennis Wingate, with bad news. “It's as if they both dropped off the face of the earth.”

“Meaning, they're…” She looked at Brooke.

“Not necessarily. In fact, if this Bryant fellow's trying to avoid child support, they may have ditched the car as soon as possible and gotten new social security numbers. For the right price and with the wrong people, that can be done.”

“So, what should we do now?”

“Well, I can fly out to Jones County when I finish this other case, start from square one. But we're talking thousands of dollars.”

“No, thank you,” Carley said. “I'll put a check in the mail tomorrow. How much do I owe you?”

“This one's on the house, Miss Reed.”

“I can't let you do that.”

“I made enough looking for you to throw in a bonus,” he said. “I hope this case turns out to have a happy ending too.”

“That would be a pleasant surprise,” Carley said, thanking him.

When she related the conversation to Brooke, the girl shook her head. “They can get new social security numbers for the right price? That means lots of money. If Mr. Rick had lots of money, why would he pick her up in a dented old car?”

“Well, if they were going to ditch it later, an old car would make sense. We don't know how much he had with him. Maybe they had planned this for a long time.”

The girl sighed. “We're never going to know what happened, are we?”

“I don't know,” Carley confessed. “But when you don't have a concrete answer, all you can do is go with the one with the most evidence to support it.”

Brooke did not respond, but turned off the television a minute later and eyed Carley.

“What?” Carley said with heart sinking.

“Okay, please hear me out. Dad has a long chain with a hook that he used to pull shingles up onto roofs. And his old aluminum fishing canoe is still in the shed too. It's light enough for two people to carry. He's got life vests too. If we could get it back there, you could paddle while I drag the chain and see if it catches on anything.”

Carley pulled herself to her feet. “I think you've had enough
Columbo
for tonight.”

The girl looked up at her, blinking tears. “What can it hurt? Chief Dale won't arrest his girlfriend for trespassing.”

“I'm not his
girlfriend
. And making spectacles of ourselves would be
worse
than being arrested.”

“Please, Carley. If I could just know for sure that Tracy's not down there, then I could stop thinking about it.”

Folding her arms, Carley said, “Okay. I'll compromise. I'll ask Dale about taking a boat back there, if you'll allow me to give him the real reason.”

“No way,” Brooke said.

“Why not?”

“Because I'm afraid of him.” She glanced at the front door.

“You have no reason to be,” Carley said wearily. “I know you get tired of hearing the hero bit, but it's a fact that the man risked his life to save who-knows-how-many women from a serial killer. I'm going to bed.”

She was at her bedroom door when she heard the sniff behind her. She turned.

“So, he's just gonna get away with it,” Brooke said miserably.

“Look,” Carley said as gently as her battered patience would allow. “I'm sorry Tracy never contacted you. It was wrong of her. But just because people treat us well, doesn't always mean they're good people. Sometimes it means they're using us.”

****

“You've sure made my life easier,” Dale said at the counter Thursday while paying for his spinach wrap and soup. “I can hardly remember what it was like to have to pack my own lunch every day.”

Carley smiled and handed over change from his ten. “Thank you.”

After a glance toward the occupied tables where the patrons were absorbed in conversations, he leaned a fraction closer and lowered his voice. “We had a call from a private detective a couple of days ago, looking for information on Tracy Knight and Rick Bryant.”

“Um-hmm?” Carley said with sinking feeling. So certain that the adulterous couple were far away from Mississippi that she had given Mr. Wingate all the information he needed, she had not considered that he might try to get more from
local
authorities.

But then, why would Dale assume
she
had hired Mr. Wingate, and not Mona Bryant?

Evasive action seemed best. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he's from Sacramento.”

Carley sighed. “Brooke misses her cousin, and wants to make sure she's all right.”

“I figured that. I'm just wondering what he found out. He refused to agree to keep me posted, and as the person in charge of the search when they disappeared, I'd like to know for the record.”

That made sense. And filled Carley with relief. She leaned a bit closer herself. “He thinks they may have changed their identities. And as much as I like Brooke, I'm not willing to pay him to chase that theory.”

“Of course not.” He nodded. “You did what you could.”

****

When the Underwoods walked into the café with Marti Jenkins at half-past three Saturday, Carley spared them the early-dinner, late-lunch joke. She visited their table after Danyell took their orders, and sensed from Marti a coldness not related to the overhead vent.

“Business is obviously going well, Carley,” Vera said.

“It is,” Carley replied, smiling. “How about the woodworking business?”

“Buzzing along,” Clifford said, which made everyone, including Marti, smile.

Steve, clad in a plaid shirt that brought out the bronze of his skin, asked, “But are you enjoying yourself?”

“Very much. You know, for years I thought teaching was my calling.”

“From what I hear, it still is.”

“I beg your pardon?”